


Background Check

by KathyG



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Caring Lestrade, Character Study, Gen, John in Afghanistan, Medical Trauma, Military Backstory, No Slash, One Shot, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-07
Updated: 2016-01-07
Packaged: 2018-05-12 08:02:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5658772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KathyG/pseuds/KathyG
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade has to conduct a thorough background check on Dr. John Watson before he can allow him to help Sherlock solve crimes for New Scotland Yard.  In the process, he has a discussion with one of John’s ex-army friends, and what he learns about the retired army doctor’s history is most enlightening!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Background Check

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BlueSkye12](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueSkye12/gifts), [wellingtonboots](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wellingtonboots/gifts).



> This story is based in part on the articles that are posted on wellingtonboot's [tumblr](http://wellingtongoose.tumblr.com/) and [LiveJournal](http://wellingtongoose.livejournal.com/) articles, and partly on the history that [BlueSkye12](http://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueSkye12/works) has given John Watson in her stories. As a result, in my story, poor John has had an awfully rough time of it before meeting Sherlock! =) (Incidentally, many thanks to BlueSkye12 _and_ to Jolie Black for beta-reading my story!)
> 
> I'm basing the years and John’s age on his CV, which is shown in part on the 1st-season episode, “The Blind Banker,” and which is explained in depth on wellingtonboot’s metas. I am assuming that John was 18 when he passed his A-levels and first enrolled in college in 1999. Also, he says during a flashback sequence in “The Sign of Three” that he was in Afghanistan for three years, so he could not have been in his mid-30s when he first met Sherlock, despite what the London news media has been led to believe! =)
> 
> Disclaimer: Sherlock, John, Murray, and Lestrade do not belong to me, but to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and to the talented team of Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss (who also own the rights to Sergeant Sally Donovan).

Detective-Inspector Gregory Lestrade shut down the computer monitor, removed his glasses, leaned back in his desk chair, and stretched his arms above his head. He had just been going over Dr. John Watson’s service record and re-reading his Internet blog. In a minute, Dr. Watson’s former army nurse, Sergeant Bill Murray, was going to arrive. He was going to fill Lestrade in on the details that the service record had left out. Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock’s older brother who worked as a civil servant, was also going to send him all of the info that he had acquired on the retired army doctor. 

The grey-haired detective-inspector glanced at the half-full coffee mug that sat on his desk. Since little beads of perspiration had begun to form on his forehead, he got up to turn down the thermostat. Upon returning to his desk, Lestrade peered down at his watch. Murray should arrive any moment now. The heater’s soft hum switched off. 

_Dr. Watson was extremely put out when I told him that I was going to do this, and that Mycroft was going to help me out,_ Lestrade thought. He shook his head, remembering… 

_“I_ have _to do this, Dr. Watson,” Lestrade had said patiently. “It’s the rules. I had to do a similar in-depth background check on Sherlock when he first started to work with me, and I had to be just as thorough in the process as I’ll have to be now.”_

_John had sighed. “I suppose you do,” he had said. “I don’t like it, because I value my privacy. But I understand that Scotland Yard has its rules, and that you have to obey them.”_

_Lestrade had clasped John’s arm. “Yes, I do have to. And believe me, I_ do _understand.”…_

A knock on the door startled Lestrade out of his reverie. “Come in,” he said. 

The office door creaked open, and a man with a short haircut and a military posture entered the room and stopped in front of Lestrade’s desk in an “at-ease” position. He was wearing an unbuttoned black corduroy coat over a dark-brown polyester shirt, and on the third finger of his right hand gleamed a plain gold-coloured band—apparently, a wedding ring. 

Lestrade rose to his feet and approached him. “Hello. I’m Detective-Inspector Gregory Lestrade,” he said. 

“And I’m Bill Murray, ex-sergeant, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.” The man extended his hand, and Lestrade shook it. Bill struggled out of his coat, and Lestrade gestured toward the chair in front of his desk. 

“Have a seat,” Lestrade said. Bill draped his coat over the back of the chair and took his seat. As the man perched straight-backed on the chair in front of the desk, the detective-inspector returned to his own seat and wiped his forehead. “I apologize for the heat in this office, Mr. Murray. I had to turn down the thermostat just a moment ago because it was getting too hot. It shouldn’t take long for my office to get comfortable.” 

“I don’t mind.” Murray smiled. “As a former army nurse, I’m used to uncomfortable temperatures.” 

“I’m sure you are.” Lestrade chuckled. He folded his arms across his desk, resting them on its smooth, polished surface, and glanced down at his coffee mug. From down the hall, the faint ringing of a telephone penetrated his ears. “Would you like me to order you a cup of coffee?” 

“Thank you, no.” Bill smiled again. 

“I want to thank you for coming here to help me out with this, Mr. Murray,” Lestrade said. He held up the crisp white sheets of paper stacked neatly on his desk and smiled. “This is truly an impressive service record, and it has told me a great deal about Dr. Watson’s military career, but it has not told me everything I need to know. In fact, the information about Dr. John Watson’s injury and its aftermath is quite sparse, to say the least. A government official is sending me more information about his history, but in the meantime, I need to know whatever you can tell me.” He pressed the “play” and “record” buttons on a cassette recorder on his desk, turning it on. “You understand, don’t you, that this discussion is being recorded?” 

“Of course.” Bill nodded. “What do you need to know?” 

Lestrade gazed at the bottom sheet in John’s service record, which currently lay at the top of the stack. “All I know from this service record is that Dr. Watson was shot by an Afghani sniper in the Helmand Province last July, while he was treating some casualties in a war zone. That he was evacuated, and then airlifted to a hospital here in the UK. That he endured some kind of—I don’t know—some kind of massive infection. A life-threatening post-operative infection, to be precise, followed by osteomyelitis and a brain abscess resulting in a couple of seizures that were possibly epileptic, this info tells me. And it states that all of this resulted in post-traumatic stress disorder. And that Dr. Watson was labelled unfit for duty, and given an honourable discharge a few months ago.” He paused. “I also know, from something Dr. Watson told Sherlock on the evening I met him, that he had come _very_ close to death.” 

“And what did John tell Sherlock?” 

Lestrade sighed. “That he didn’t have to imagine what he would say, if he had been murdered and was facing his last few seconds of life. And that it would be, ‘Please, God, let me live.’” 

Murray nodded, a sad look on his face. “All of that is true. I suppose you want me to fill you in on what happened, since I was there.” 

Lestrade inclined his head, and then folded his arms across his desk. “That’s right. Everything you can tell me, please.” He took a sip of his coffee. 

Sighing, Bill leaned back against the chair and started fingering his wedding ring with his left hand. "Well, it’s all true, what John said, and what you read in his service record. John and I were on a retrieval mission on July 27th of last year ***** , along with several other doctors and nurses who had flown in from Camp Bastion. We were treating some casualties, and there had been a raging gun battle going on around us. There was a lull in the fighting; the shooting had stopped. John was in the process of stabilizing a soldier whose leg—his right leg—had been torn apart by shrapnel, so that he and I would be able to evacuate him out of the combat zone to our army unit, where he would be stabilized further and then transferred onward to Camp Bastion for more treatment. As his nurse, I was helping him. He had just managed to finish the job when it happened.” 

Bill paused. “Without warning, several gunshots rang out from over the hill behind us. The first two of those shots appeared to be shot almost simultaneously, and the others all followed in rapid succession. It was an Afghani sniper, an insurgent, firing at us. Instantly, John dropped face-down on the ground; even with his armour on, I could tell that blood was oozing out of the entry wound on the back of his left shoulder. I could see more blood coming out from underneath his chest plate. He had been shot with a 50-calibre armour-piercing bullet. One of our colleagues immediately began to attend the soldier that John had treated, while I turned my attention to John. It was clear to me that his shoulder was haemorrhaging; his subclavian artery had been punctured. The bullet had entered from the back through the joint, Detective-Inspector, destroying his left shoulder. It had shattered the bones in his shoulder and nicked his left lung, and it had just narrowly missed his heart. He was in imminent danger of bleeding to death, so I had to act quickly.” 

Lestrade’s brow furrowed in concern. “What about the sniper?” 

“Several soldiers who were with us shot back. One of them shot and killed the sniper.” 

“I see.” Lestrade nodded. “Go on, please.” 

Bill scratched his neck. “The first thing I had to do was to remove his armour, so I could treat the wound, and that’s what I did, while one of our colleagues radioed for an extra evac helicopter. The two helicopters that were already there had just been loaded with gravely-wounded casualties, you see; there was no room for another patient. After I had finished removing John’s armour, I pulled out a pressure bandage and pressed it against the gunshot wound.” He shook his head. “His scapula was shattered, and his clavicle was reduced to splinters. There was significant damage to his soft tissue, ligaments, and nerves. In short, his entire left shoulder was destroyed.” Lestrade winced. “Although I didn’t know this right away, his posterior cord was visibly damaged. Since John is strongly left-sided, that was _not_ a good thing.” Pain etched the former army nurse’s face at the memory. 

“The good news is, none of the cords were severed; his left arm would have put out of commission permanently if that had happened. But shards of John’s clavicle were sticking out of his wound, just like quills. I could see bits of muscle and bone in his wound. He was in real agony, Detective-Inspector, terrible agony; I could see it on his face and hear it in the moans he fought so hard to suppress.” 

Lestrade winced. “I’m sure you could, Mr. Murray. Please continue.” 

Murray grimaced. “The extra evac helicopter landed five minutes after my colleague had radioed for it, and we loaded John and the other remaining patients on board. There was no time to fly him back to our unit; we had to take him immediately to Camp Bastion. Before we arrived there, John’s breathing changed; it developed a gurgle to it. A wheezing gurgle, to be more precise; he also started coughing up and choking on fluid from his left lung. Anyway, John flat-lined—went into cardiac arrest—just five minutes after we were in the air; his heart stopped. I had to administer CPR, to get it going again. He was also aspirating blood, Detective-Inspector, and his blood pressure was dangerously low. I ended up having to give him an oxygen mask because his respiration was becoming increasingly laboured and ineffectual, and I also had to insert a chest tube into his left lung to remove some of the blood and fluid out of his chest, and help him breathe.” He paused. “Unfortunately—” The former army nurse bit his lip. “—specks of blood started appearing on the inside of his oxygen mask while we were in the helicopter.” Lestrade winced again. 

Leaning forward, Bill rested his elbows on the desk. He spent a moment rubbing his fingertip over its smooth, unyielding surface before he continued. “While we were on that helicopter ride, John managed to whisper the very words he told Sherlock he would say, if he were dying: ‘Please, God, let me live.’ He whispered it more than once, Detective-Inspector; I just managed to understand what he was saying. He knew what was at stake, and he must have been convinced he was dying. While we were en-route to Camp Bastion, he whispered that prayer for the last time just before he lost consciousness; it was shortly afterwards that he stopped breathing and I had to use an amu bag to force him to breathe. And it was less than a minute after _that_ that John's heart stopped beating, and I had to administer CPR.” 

Lestrade shook his head. He remembered the moment during the recent serial-suicides case when Sherlock had asked Dr. Watson what he would have said, if he had been murdered: 

_“Yeah, but if_ you _were dying, if_ you’d _been murdered, in your very last few seconds, what would you say?”_

_“‘Please, God, let me live.’”_

_“Oh, use your imagination!” an exasperated Sherlock had retorted._

_Straightening his back, Dr. Watson had looked him squarely in the eyes, his own eyes blinking and a look of pain on his face. “I don’t_ have _to.”_

It was becoming clear to Lestrade, as of now, what Dr. Watson had meant. He reached up to brush a few strands of grey hair from his now-dry forehead. The heater’s soft background hum resumed. 

“He never did regain consciousness after that. Not before he was airlifted to Selly Oak Hospital in Birmingham, anyway,” Bill continued. “It took us over 10 minutes, in total, to reach the hospital at Camp Bastion, where he was immediately rushed into emergency surgery. They operated on his clavicle and scapula, worked to reconstruct his shoulder, and repaired his artery, and they inserted another tube into his left lung while they were at it.” He paused. “I later learned that John went into cardiac arrest again while he was on the operating table. They not only gave him CPR, they also gave him several units of whole blood before continuing to repair his shoulder. And a few more units while he was in the recovery room.” 

“I see.” Lestrade nodded, and sipped his coffee. 

“It was a few days afterward that John was stabilized enough to be transferred to Selly Oak Hospital. He was still unconscious when he was airlifted back to Great Britain; he still had a chest tube; and he was on a ventilator. I really think that once John regained consciousness in Selly Oak and was taken off the ventilator, he was fully expecting to return to Afghanistan as soon as his shoulder and lung had healed. Had serious complications not set in, he would have.” 

Bill reached up to slick back his hair. “The first complication he suffered consisted of a massive septic infection, post-operative. An extremely serious, life-threatening case of sepsis, Detective-Inspector, severe sepsis; it came on him overnight, his second night in Selly Oak. John ran a dangerously high fever, 40 degrees Centigrade, starting out. His heart rate and his breathing rate both increased, and he was confused, mentally. Some of his organs functioned poorly, and he had to be put in the intensive care unit and kept on a ventilator once more. They had to keep him undressed except for some hospital-issued paper pants, and they had to keep him under a cooling blanket. He spent the next few weeks fighting for his life; several times during that time, he had febrile seizures, caused by his high fever. It really looked as if he was going to die.” 

He shook his head. “As if that wasn’t enough, John also soon began exhibiting symptoms of osteomyelitis in his right leg. At that point, though, further surgery could be delayed no longer; he underwent three operations at Selly Oak to further repair and reconstruct his injured shoulder. That makes four operations he’s had on his shoulder altogether; whether he will need more in the future remains to be seen. During the third surgery, the doctors removed some bone chips that were floating in John’s shoulder, and they repaired his coracoclavicular ligament. The good news is, that particular repair job reduced his discomfort, and it also freed up his range of motion a little. Unfortunately, nothing could be done for the damaged posterior cord; he will have to live with the nerve damage for the rest of his life. At the moment, however, that was the least of John’s worries. The osteomyelitis was threatening his life just as the sepsis had.” 

“And how did the bullet wound cause him to have osteomyelitis?” Lestrade asked. 

Murray smiled sadly. “All too easily, Detective-Inspector. There are numerous germs on the skin tissue that are kept from entering the human body by its first line of defence—the skin itself. The entry of a bullet creates an opening for the germs to enter. One of them is the _Staphylococcus aureus_ , one of the germs that cause osteomyelitis. The injury exposes the bone to infection, you see; the germs enter the bloodstream and travel to various parts of the body, one of them being the bone or bone marrow. Unfortunately, antibodies aren’t always successful in fighting them off.” 

He stared down at his hands on the table. “What happened in John’s case is that even though the surgeons who operated on his shoulder at Camp Bastion were very thorough in washing his bullet wound, and in making sure that they followed all necessary precautions to keep all of their instruments sterile, the germs had already entered his bloodstream when they first started operating on his shoulder. They weren’t able to prevent his bloodstream from seeding the germs to other parts of his body. Eventually, some of the germs—the _Staphylococcus aureus_ —landed in the bone marrow of his right leg. As a result, not only was his leg in severe pain, he was forced to continue fighting for his life." 

Bill bit his lower lip. "The antibiotics the doctors gave him to fight the infection are very potent and very poisonous, Detective-Inspector, and for months, they had to be administered directly into his heart through a PICC line. In spite of the danger, it was a risk that had to be taken, or John would have most certainly either died or lost his leg. If the antibiotics had not been administered, or if they had not been successful in curing the osteomyelitis, the doctors would have had to amputate his leg to save his life.” Lestrade winced yet again, and shook his head at the thought. 

“As it was, John continued going through a very rough time, and I mean _rough_! For a long time, his right leg was very painful; they had to keep giving him morphine to ease the pain, and they had to keep monitoring his dosages to make sure he didn’t become addicted. And he was forced to endure acute renal failure; his kidneys started failing. That, in turn, made dialysis necessary. It was because of the antibiotics, you see, that the renal failure set in. It lasted for months; for a long time, nobody knew if his kidneys would ever regain their ability to function.” 

Bill shook his head. “And if that wasn’t enough, some of the _Staphylococcus aureus_ that entered John’s bloodstream when he was shot travelled to his brain and created an abscess. And so, in addition to treating his sepsis and his osteomyelitis, his doctors also had to treat the brain abscess; it had to be drained. Unfortunately, several weeks after the abscess had been successfully treated, John had a seizure, and it wasn’t a febrile seizure that time, because the fever had broken by then. Nobody knew if he was developing epilepsy. He ended up having two such seizures in the course of three weeks.” He shifted his position on the chair’s unyielding surface and glanced at the late-afternoon sunlight pouring in through the window. 

“And last, but not least, the nerve damage in his shoulder caused him a lot of trouble. The extent of the damage gradually became apparent over time. His left hand started experiencing intermittent tremors. I’ve recently learned that, oddly enough, stress doesn’t cause him to have those tremors, but other psychosomatic triggers do cause them, and so does fatigue. It’s strange to say this, I know, but action and an accompanying surge of adrenaline actually keeps the tremors at bay.” Bill shook his head again, smiling wryly at the thought. “He kept getting a pins-and-needles sensation in his left arm and his left hand, and he still does. His fine-motor skills were damaged, and the dexterity and sensation in his left hand were both reduced. At first, he could grasp nothing with his left hand, and for a left-handed man like John, that’s a real annoyance, to say the least. Only through months of physical and occupational therapy at Selly Oak Hospital was he able to regain almost the full use of his left arm and the functional use of his left hand. The good news is, his range of motion improved through physical therapy; it’s since become quite good, I’m glad to say. Unfortunately…” 

Murray sighed. “His handwriting used to be so neat, Detective-Inspector, so tidy, so lovely; now it’s quite messy, cramped, a real scrawl. He keeps practicing his handwriting to this very day, keeps trying to restore it to what it used to be before he was shot; so far, he’s had no success. He also performs daily mobility exercises. He holds a pen or pencil somewhat awkwardly, I’ve noticed. He used to be quite nimble at touch-typing, and now he can only type hunt-and-peck with two fingers on each hand.” He paused. 

“To this day, the fingers of John’s left hand tend to be a bit numb. Whenever his hand starts to shake, he always stretches out his fingers and then clenches his hand in a fist over and over again, and he soon starts rubbing his fingertips with his thumb. It’s very hard for him to manage anything with his left hand when that tremor happens. He is quite capable of dropping or spilling something when his hand starts shaking. Sometimes the tremors force him to eat and drink with his right hand, even though he’s left-handed. And he has to be careful in how he puts on a pullover shirt.” Bill grimaced, and Lestrade shook his head. 

“He’s not as able to reach overhead or behind him with his left arm as he once was; it hurts his shoulder to even try. There’s a limit to how far behind or above him that he can reach before intense pain sets in. His left arm’s range of motion is definitely reduced, especially if he tries to reach anything above his head or behind him, and so is his left hand’s sensation, its ability to feel. He still has some residual pain in his shoulder the rest of the time, but he can manage it as a rule. He also has a portable barometer now; if the weather’s cold and damp, or getting ready to change, his shoulder suffers increased pain.” 

He made a face. “As if all that isn’t enough, every time he has to undergo a security check before entering a building, the hardware the surgeons put in his shoulder to keep the bone fragments together sets off the metal detector.” 

Lestrade nodded. “I see.” As a telephone in the office next door made a muffled ringing sound, he took a sip of his coffee and then looked straight at Bill. “Hardware, you say?” 

“Yes. Pins, a screw, and a metal fixation plate holding the clavicle and scapula together.” Lestrade nodded. “It may eventually be possible to remove the fixation plate, but the pins and the screw are there to stay.” 

The retired army nurse cleared his throat. “The army has a firm rule, Mr. Lestrade: _nobody_ who has a seizure disorder is allowed in the military. No one who has had a seizure in the last 10 years is allowed to join. Just one seizure is enough to disqualify you, and only last autumn, John had two—and I’m not counting the fever-induced seizures. Between his renal failure, his nerve damage, and the prospect of epilepsy, no one knew if John would ever regain his full health. It was impossible to determine whether he would ever be able to return to active service. Among other things, if he were to have a seizure while he was on active duty—well, let’s just say that it was a risk that the army medical board concluded simply could not be taken.” He scratched his left arm. 

“And so, the decision was finally made not only to give John a medical discharge, but also to take away his driver’s license. He’s been banned from driving, possibly permanently. And because of the nerve damage, while he can still be a general practitioner, his days as a surgeon are over.” 

Lestrade shook his head, sadness etched on his face. “Has he had any seizures since his discharge?” 

“Not that I know of.” 

“What about his kidneys?” 

“They’ve since regained their full ability to function, I’m glad to say.” 

“Good.” Lestrade smiled and then leaned back in his chair, a pensive look on his face. The heater’s soft humming switched off. “When I first met him, he was limping around on a cane. But during the case that Sherlock involved him in that night, his limp disappeared, and he stopped using the cane. Sherlock thinks his limp was psychosomatic.” 

“It was, to an extent. The limp was caused by pain in his right leg every time he walked.” Murray glanced down his hands, and then looked back at Lestrade. “He was treating a patient with a badly-damaged right leg when he was shot, and that doubtless had a lot to do with his limp. But part of it, I have reason to believe, was that his own right leg was in severe pain for so long, during his lengthy battle with osteomyelitis. The brain has been known to relive old injuries during times of stress, did you know that? Hence, the pain in his leg and the resulting limp whenever he has walked. It actually started while he was undergoing reconstruction, and physical and occupational therapy, at Selly Oak.” 

He paused, shaking his head. “The physical and occupational therapy he underwent, once he began to recover from his osteomyelitis, was rigorous, to say the least. It was so hard on John, but if he was ever to get back on his feet and once more be able to function, it had to be done.” 

“And what did the physical and occupational therapy consist of?” Lestrade asked. 

Bill paused. “Well, John had to get his strength back, for starters, and his doctors and therapists pushed him to do just that. In fact, they pushed him hard, Detective-Inspector Lestrade, from start to finish. First, he had to sit up in bed; next, he had to get out of his bed and stand; after that, he had to walk around the room. All the while, he had to practice moving his left arm. At that point, he had to start working to get back his mobility. At first—” He bit his lower lip. “At first, he could just barely manage to flex two fingers. He could grasp nothing, not even a tennis ball or a teacup. He couldn’t hold a pen or pencil. Just stacking some wooden blocks was such a struggle for him, I’m told, and it took him hours to do that. It wasn’t long until it was hurting his right leg to walk, even though the osteomyelitis was gone by then, and then he started to limp and use a cane.” He sighed. “I’m told that he worked so hard to get his strength and mobility back. He did everything his doctors and therapists told him to do. But…but the extent of the damage became more and more apparent as time went on. Every week…” Murray swallowed and took a deep breath. “Every week, there was yet another setback or some new obstacle. It was so rough on John, _much_ rougher than I can possibly describe. He wasn’t released from the hospital until he was discharged from the army on December 1st.” 

“I see.” Wincing, Lestrade furrowed his brow as he thought about what Bill had just told him. He bent forward in his chair and, clasping his hands together on the desk, looked intently at Bill. “You say he’s left-handed. In the army, then, which hand did he shoot with? His left or his right?” 

“His right.” Bill smiled. “From what he told me, he didn’t know how to shoot when he first joined the Army Reserves while he was at university, so the army had to teach him. The average gun is designed for right-handed people, and so he had to learn to shoot with his right.” 

“He did, huh?” Lestrade leaned back again to think about what Bill had just said. He remembered what Sherlock had said about the shooter who had killed Jefferson Hope to save his life. 

_“Kill shot over that distance, from that kind of a weapon—that’s a crack shot you’re looking for, but not just a marksman—a fighter,”_ Sherlock had said. _“His hands couldn’t have shaken at all, so clearly, he’s acclimatised to violence.”_

 _If Dr. Watson had shot Jefferson Hope with his left hand, chances are it would have shaken,_ Lestrade thought. _He might have accidentally shot Sherlock if that had happened. He was trained to shoot with his right hand, so it was with his right that he fired the handgun. As far as I know, there is no tremor in his right hand—only his left. One thing is clear: Dr. John Watson is an exceptionally good marksman, and not afraid to fire when necessary._

After a moment, he gazed at the former army nurse. “One thing puzzles me, Mr. Murray. I can understand your being able to tell me everything that happened right up to the point when Dr. Watson was airlifted to the UK, but how do you know so much about what happened to him afterwards?” 

Bill smiled wryly. “Our commanding officer, Major James Sholto, our army unit’s consultant surgeon, and I—our entire army unit, in fact—all kept in contact with his doctors at Selly Oak Hospital; they were very good about keeping us posted. At one point, I was able to travel to England to visit him at the hospital during a short leave. John was, and _is_ , my friend as well as my colleague; he was my brother-in-arms while we were in the army. I’ve known him since before we were deployed to Afghanistan. Also, after I had mustered out, I was in London for a short time at the end of December, and I took the opportunity to meet up with him again. During my short visit, we spent a good deal of time together at his bedsit and at the hostel where I was staying; we also met several times at nearby pubs for a pint. We shared much with each other throughout that time.” He glanced down at his wedding ring, gleaming under the overhead light, and smiled. “I have since gotten married, and I’ve recently invited John to come by and meet my new wife.” 

“So I read on his blog.” Lestrade smiled, and then his brow furrowed. “And what kind of shape was he in, physically and emotionally, when you visited him?” 

Sadness creased the face of the ex-army nurse. He slumped back in his chair. “Not good, Mr. Lestrade. Not good at all. For one thing, he was still far too thin, and he was just so weak and hollow still. I mean, he was just a shell of himself, Mr. Lestrade, nothing like the man I had served under in Afghanistan. And for another, he was having regular nightmares about the war, terrible nightmares; more than once during our time together, he also suffered a flashback. He was so depressed; I could tell he was, even though he did his best to hide it from me. He was so withdrawn, so—” Bill paused, thinking. “—uh, let me think: so—so _flat_. He didn’t smile once during my visit here. What’s more, his appetite was gone. He might take out an apple and make himself a cup of coffee or tea when he first got up in the morning, intending to have them for breakfast, but come lunchtime or even supper, he wouldn’t have even touched his apple yet." 

He shook his head. “And, of course, there was the limp, which certainly didn’t help matters; I know it had to have made him feel crippled, to have to use that cane. Even though there was nothing physically wrong with his leg at that point. Needless to say, the intermittent hand tremors, the numbness, and the reduction of his range of motion and of hand mobility made it all worse. He had developed the habit of balling up his left hand and rubbing his fingertips with his thumb. Again and again during my visit, he kept clenching his left fist tightly, and then he would splay out his fingers and clench his fist again. He told me, at one point, that he couldn’t quite feel them.” Bill paused. “He also told me he was seeing a therapist.” 

“Do you think he might have been suicidal?” 

Murray winced. “I fear he was, Detective-Inspector. He never spoke to me about wanting to kill himself, but I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he was thinking of it.” 

He looked at Lestrade. “You need to understand, Mr. Lestrade: John has a strong need to be needed. To be of service to others, to care for them. To be part of something bigger than himself, to make a difference, to have a purpose for his life. Not to mention that he loves a challenge, and he likes to be appreciated. And—” His eyes twinkled. “—he has a craving for action and excitement and adrenaline—even danger.” The two men chuckled. “He was a career army officer as well as a doctor, Mr. Lestrade; he made life-and-death decisions. As an army doctor, he was able to save lives, to help his fellow soldiers. He was always prepared to kill when he had to, and sometimes he did have to, to save the lives of other soldiers and sometimes civilians, as well as his own life. But his priority, as a doctor, was always _saving_ lives. He never enjoyed taking a life, but sometimes he had to, to save one. As an army doctor, he was part of something much bigger than himself; we all were. When you’re a soldier, Mr. Lestrade, it’s not about you. It’s about something bigger than you, _much_ bigger. The army was his life. In Afghanistan, his skills were desperately needed, very much in demand, and he knew it. He would not have been discharged from the army unless the damage to his body was severe and irreparable, making it impossible for him to continue his work.” Lestrade nodded, and then sipped his coffee. 

“When John was invalided out, he lost all that. He lost his sense of purpose. He lost the feeling that he was making a difference. And he lost the access to the adrenaline-pumping action that he had been a part of for so long. When he arrived here, he had no job, only one family member still alive, few possessions, and few friends in London; most of his friends were in the army. Virtually everything he owns can be placed in a duffel bag and a large suitcase. He cannot afford to live in London on an army pension, but he loves it here; now that he’s out of the army, he does not want to leave it. He was forced to live by himself in a bedsit in the East End upon his move to London, because he could afford nothing better and had no one to share a flat with, and he cannot go to his sister for help. Harry Watson—her real name is Harriet—she’s an alcoholic, you see, and she and John just don’t get along; they never have. And except for a cousin he’s not even close to, he has no other relatives still living. Even in his bedsit, John could barely afford food and lodgings. It was all he could do just to get by.” Lestrade nodded. 

Bill slicked his hair back again as the heater’s background hum came back on. “John was convinced he had nothing to live for, and he saw no hope that that would ever change. He was still alive, thanks to the doctors at Camp Bastion and Selly Oak Hospital, but he wasn’t _living_ , if you understand me.” The detective-inspector nodded. He did. And that John was also alive thanks to the efforts of Sergeant Bill Murray himself, Lestrade had no doubt. Bill went on. “He needs a reason to live, and simply existing and muddling through from day to day isn’t living for him. In short, John’s had the most difficult time adjusting to civilian life. He really misses being a soldier, I can tell; at the same time, the terrible things that he saw and experienced in the war have had quite a negative effect on him. He’s most definitely suffering at least from trauma, maybe even PTSD. At least he’s seeing a therapist, but to be honest, I’m not sure she’s really been helping him, although I’ve no doubt she’s tried. What he really needs is a therapist who specializes in treating discharged soldiers; unfortunately, military therapists are few, and there are none available in London at present that John can see.” 

Bill chuckled. “You know, Mr. Lestrade, keeping that blog was his therapist’s idea. She was convinced that it would help him make the adjustment. He was most reluctant to post anything on it until recently; he really had nothing to blog about, and he’s never been one to wear his emotions on his sleeve. He’s always been reserved and guarded by nature. I believe you know why that changed—keeping the blog, I mean.” 

“Oh, yes.” Lestrade laughed. “I certainly do. Now that he’s teamed up with Sherlock, he will have _much_ to blog about, even if he never blogs about his emotions.” Bill nodded agreement. 

Someone knocked on the office door. “Come in,” Lestrade said. The door creaked open, and Sergeant Sally Donovan stepped in, a sheaf of papers in her hand, her shoes softly thudding on the blue carpet. 

“This just arrived from Mycroft Holmes’s office,” she said. As Lestrade rose to his feet and pushed his chair back, she handed him the papers. 

Lestrade glanced down at them. “Thank you, Donovan.” 

Sally stared at him hard, disapproval etched on her face. “Lestrade, are you really going to let this Dr. John Watson work with…that…?” Her voice trailed off, leaving the word, “freak,” unspoken. 

The detective-inspector nodded. “If he passes the background check, I see no reason not to.” 

Shaking her head in disapproval, Sally pivoted on her heels and left, the door clicking shut behind her. Murray looked at the door, amused, and then turned back to Lestrade. “I take it she doesn’t approve of John Watson.” 

Lestrade shook his head, a rueful smile on his face. “It’s Sherlock she doesn’t approve of. She’s convinced that he’s a dangerous psychopath. Needless to say, she doesn’t approve of anyone working with him. She’s already tried to warn Dr. Watson off.” 

He glanced down at the papers Mycroft had sent, turned off the cassette recorder, and then looked back up at Bill. “Thank you, Mr. Murray; your info has been very helpful. Now I’ve got to go over this information I’ve received about Dr. Watson.” 

“Certainly.” Bill stood up, pushing his chair back, and slipped back into his coat. Shaking Lestrade’s hand, the ex-army nurse left the detective-inspector’s office. Lestrade approached the back of the room to turn the heater off for a while, since it was getting too hot again, and then he returned to his desk. 

**XXXXXXX**

Several hours later, Lestrade had finished reading and digesting the information that Mycroft had sent him, listening to the tape of his interview with Murray, re-reading the entries on Dr. Watson’s blog, and reviewing the copy of the former army doctor’s service record that he had initially acquired at the beginning of his background check of Dr. Watson. By then, the sun was setting, so the detective-inspector had turned on the table lamp, which shed a soft glow over the desk. Lestrade had just turned the thermostat back on, because it was getting cold in his office; the heat emitting from the air vents felt good on his skin. Now he scanned the papers, reviewing them, stopping here and there to focus on particular pieces of information that caught his eye. Everything that he had read in Dr. Watson’s service record and on his blog, and in the detailed information which Mycroft had sent him, had confirmed and corroborated everything that the former Sergeant Bill Murray had told him. Several times, the detective-inspector stopped to rub his eyes when the print because fuzzy from eyestrain. Once, he stopped to glance at his watch. 

Dr. John Hamish Watson had been born and raised in Chelmsford, in Essex, the younger of two children and the only son. His parents, who were deceased, had been working-class; his father had been a labouring man, and his mother had been a stay-at-home mum. After leaving his state-run primary school at age 11, the future Dr. Watson had followed his older sister, Harriet, to a local state-run grammar school, King Edward VI Grammar School, from 1994 until 1999. There, he had eventually earned six A’s on his GCSE exams, as well as top grades in his three A-levels later on, in biology, chemistry, and maths. Because he had been particularly loyal to the House that he had been assigned to, he had been awarded its House colour. In the Lower School, John had also received clarinet lessons; once he had attained the skill level of Grade 1, he had played that instrument in the junior orchestra. Later on, after he had reached the Grade 6 skill level, he had played the clarinet in the senior orchestra for the rest of his time at King Edward. Once he was in Year 9, the future doctor had also joined the school rugby team. While he had studied for his A-levels at King Edward, his parents had been killed in an accident, and his older sister, who had since passed her own A-levels and was by then of legal age, had become his legal guardian. Except for a female cousin, Dr. Watson had no other living relatives; his grandparents and his parents’ siblings had long since been deceased. 

_He must be quite intelligent, and his parents must have been quite anxious for their children to have a better life than they were having, to get them enrolled in a grammar school,_ Lestrade thought, scratching the side of his nose. _They were very fortunate. I myself never got anywhere close to a grammar school—never mind a KEG school! Not even a state-run KEG school._ The detective-inspector smiled, impressed. _Dr. Watson may not be a genius like Sherlock, but it’s clear that his intelligence is above average, and that he was a diligent and conscientious student._ He took a sip of his now-cold coffee and then read on. 

Afterward, from 1999 to 2004, the future Dr. John Watson had attended King’s College London, the first member of his family to ever attend university, and there, he had studied medicine. His first year there had been an intercalated year, during which time he had studied for a Bachelor of Science degree. He had studied diligently and had earned better-than-average marks throughout his time at King’s College. Since only his classes were free, he had joined the Army Reserves during his first year at medical school, and had remained in the AR until his graduation; it had paid for his books, food, and housing. And he had continued to play the clarinet in the college orchestra and to play rugby throughout his university career. During his last three years as a medical school student, the future doctor had done some of his clinical work at Kings College Hospital, part of it at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, and the rest of it at the South Thames Deanery. 

In 2004, at age 24, when Dr. Watson had graduated from medical school with an MBBS ****** in the top ten percent of his class (at which point, he had received his medical-degree certificate from the University of London), he had commenced doing his rotations as a junior house officer for the next year. He had performed his first rotation at University College Hospital in London, in general surgery and medicine. He had spent his second rotation at Broomfield Hospital in his old hometown of Chelmsford, in trauma and orthopaedics, and staying at his late parents’ house throughout that rotation; he had visited Barts Hospital during that time, to attend some courses that were run by the North East Thames Deanery. And then he had done one more rotation at Kings College Hospital. Afterward, from August, 2005, to August, 2006, Dr. Watson had completed his entire rotation as a senior house officer at Barts. All the while, he had continued his weekends with the Army Reserves. 

In 2006, after Dr. Watson had finished his rotation as a senior house officer, had completed his training to become a general practitioner, and had received his GP licence, he had made two life-changing decisions. He had decided to retrain as a surgeon, and he had decided to join the army. He had been 26 at the time. 

_Hmm,_ Lestrade thought, rising to his feet to turn the heater back off. _Dr. Watson must have decided that life as a civilian GP would be much too boring, especially after seven years in the Army Reserves. He probably wanted to see the world, and experience a lot of adventure and excitement. He’s an adrenaline junkie if I’ve ever seen one!_ Amusement creased his face as he smiled. 

Chuckling, the grey-haired detective-inspector returned to his desk, pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, and bent again over the papers that Mycroft had sent him. Dr. Watson had initially tried to get a surgical training post at one of the London hospitals, only to find that none were available at any of them. It was at that point that he had decided to join the Royal Army Medical Corps’ surgery-training program instead. And so, he had done just that, at which point he had spent a few months training to become a commissioned officer at Royal Military Academy Sandhurst, where he had acquired some leadership skills. He had been at the top of his class while there. Since Dr. Watson would not be leading troops into battle, he had taken a shorter officers’ course at Sandhurst than regular soldiers did. But since he was training to become a surgeon, he had taken the officers’ course long enough to become quite proficient in the use of firearms. Lestrade wondered why it was necessary for an army surgeon to be skilled with a gun, since army doctors were not sent to the front lines. _It must have been during that time that he met Bill Murray,_ he thought, _since they met before they were deployed to Afghanistan._

At the end of his officer training, Dr. Watson had been commissioned as a second lieutenant in the RAMC, and then he had been deployed to one of the active war zones in Afghanistan, where he had spent the next three years first in the Helmand Province, then in Kandahar, and then back in Helmand, being trained in surgery and emergency medicine. It had been necessary that the new army doctor receive his surgical training in active combat zones, in order to learn the skills that he would need in order to become an army trauma surgeon. In the Core Training program at Camp Bastion in Helmand, Dr. Watson had spent two years learning general surgical techniques that any surgeon could apply to nearly all operations. 

Afterward, in the Specialty Training program at the beginning of his third year as an army doctor, he had been deployed to Kandahar, where he had been assigned to assist a consultant surgeon who was attached to the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers as its medical officer, training under him to become a trauma surgeon. _At some point, Bill Murray must have been assigned to that unit, too,_ Lestrade thought, _since he was assisting the doctor when that insurgent shot him._ For the next year, until Dr. Watson was shot, he had remained with the Fusiliers. 

The particular unit to which Dr. Watson and the consultant surgeon had both been assigned had been under the command of Major James Sholto. The young trainee had still been under Major Sholto’s command and the command of the consultant surgeon at the end of Dr. Watson’s deployment in Afghanistan. The Fusiliers had remained in Kandahar until the middle of Dr. Watson’s third year in the army, after which the entire unit had been redeployed to the Helmand Province, where they had still been assigned when the young trainee army surgeon had been shot. 

Since it was necessary that, as a trauma surgeon, Dr. Watson be quite flexible in his surgical skills, the focus in his training had continued to be more of the same. In the process, the consultant surgeon had taught the young trainee surgeon A&E techniques, and to treat gunshot wounds as well as injuries caused by shrapnel and explosions. 

_Battlefield medicine,_ thought Lestrade, wincing. _Such a horrific world!_ He cleared his throat, shifted his position on his chair’s unyielding surface, took another sip of coffee, and then read on. He momentarily wrapped his arms around his chest as he felt goose-bumps forming on them, but kept his eyes on the print. _The temperature’s dropping_ flashed through his mind, before he forced his attention back to the info before him. He didn’t want to get up and turn the heater back on, not just yet. 

The young army doctor’s goal had been to assist in stabilizing soldiers who had sustained massive trauma, so that it would be possible to evacuate them out of the combat zone to receive more specialised treatment. _I wonder if it ever occurred to Dr. Watson that he might find himself in need of such treatment before it was over,_ Lestrade thought ruefully, shaking his head, and then kept reading. 

Soon after Dr. Watson had started to undergo his Specialty training, when he had been 28 years old, his superior officers had begun sending him and his nurse fairly frequently into full-combat zones to stabilize and retrieve wounded soldiers by using A&E procedures. Sometimes he had flown with his patients to the army base where he had been stationed, where they would be further stabilized and then sent onward to Camp Bastion; other times, he had flown with them directly to Camp Bastion itself. As a trainee surgeon, and thus as a more junior member of the army surgical team, Dr. Watson had been more expendable than any consultant surgeon would be, and so he had participated in retrieval missions at combat zones far more often than the consultant surgeon he had worked under. Thus, it had been absolutely necessary for the young army doctor to be pretty handy with a weapon, and he had been; he was a crack shot. 

_Ah. That explains the need for excellent firearms skills. Since he first learned to fire a gun back in the Army Reservesand, as I’m surmising, must have become extremely proficient while he was at Sandhurst, he had years to improve his skills with weapons even further before he was discharged. And it’s clear that Dr. Watson_ is _a crack shot, even though he’s left-handed, and he had to fire his guns with his right,_ Lestrade thought wryly, pausing to remove his glasses and rub his eyes because the print was becoming fuzzy again; his eyes were strained. He shivered in the cold. _I’m going to have to turn the heater back on soon; the temperature’s definitely dropping._ After gazing at the wall for a moment to rest his eyes, he put his glasses back on, and then turned his attention back to the information he was reading. 

On those emergency retrieval missions, during which Dr. Watson had been flown to the combat areas in evac helicopters, he had been issued full body armour and standard-issue weapons to defend himself, his nurse, and his patients with. On quite a number of occasions, the young army doctor had had to fire back at the enemy while being shot at, but that had never been his priority; saving lives had been. He had been cool, calm, and collected while under fire, his service report stated, courageous and daring, as well as very loyal; he had been mentioned in dispatches and had received numerous citations and commendations, as well as a number of medals for bravery, valour, and gallantry. 

_If only he had been successful at defending himself on that final retrieval mission he was sent on,_ Lestrade thought, shaking his head, and then continued to read. 

Since Dr. Watson had been in the process of training to become a trauma surgeon throughout his time in Afghanistan, he had never had the authority to make final decisions regarding treatment; he had been required to defer to his superiors. He had performed many of the straightforward operations without supervision. On his own, he had removed quite a sizable number of bullets and shrapnel, and he had sewn up more gunshot wounds than he could probably count. Sometimes, Dr. Watson had had to treat wounded civilians, including Afghani children; more often, however, he had treated injured soldiers or wounded medical colleagues. In the process, to the best of his ability, the young army doctor had helped to stop internal bleeding; he had extracted shrapnel and bullets; he had stopped external haemorrhaging; he had sewn up a variety of wounds; and he had simply treated and bandaged other external injuries. 

The only cases that Dr. Watson had been forbidden to treat without supervision had been those in which the bullets or shrapnel had hit vital organs; it had been the consultant surgeon’s job to treat those serious wounds. Nor had he performed any amputations, since that was the job of the orthopaedic surgeons. Instead, the young army doctor had worked with the consultant surgeon and with anaesthetists who’d had training in intensive care to physically stabilize wounded soldiers. Whenever Dr. Watson had operated on a patient with complex injuries, he had been the assistant surgeon to the consultant during the operation. 

In the course of his surgical training, Dr. Watson had advanced in his rank from second lieutenant to lieutenant, and then, when he had embarked on his Specialty training, he had advanced to the rank of captain. Had he remained in the army long enough to finish his training and become a consultant surgeon himself, he would have become a major. As it was, the young army doctor had still been undergoing his trauma specialist training when he had been shot and then invalided out. He had been 29 when that had happened; he would soon be 30 years old. After Dr. Watson’s release from Selly Oak Hospital on December 1st, the Ministry of Defence had arranged for him to live in a London bedsit. 

At that point, the detective-inspector spent a few minutes going over the photographs that had been taken of Dr. Watson during the course of his primary school and grammar school years, his years in medical school and as house officer, his few months at Sandhurst, and his three years in the RAMC. He also looked at the photographs of the doctor's army medals, as a proud smile creased his face. 

_Afghanistan Campaign Medal, Operational Service Medal, Military Cross, Distinguished Service Medal, and several other military medals for valour, bravery, and gallantry. A most distinguished career indeed,_ and _over a three-year span,_ he thought. _The only one that’s lacking is the Victoria Cross!_

Afterward, Lestrade spent a few more minutes going over the photos that had been taken of the bedsit that Dr. Watson had lived in for two months, and of the four-story building which that tiny bedsit was contained in. It was located on the other side of London from Sherlock’s Westminster flat, in one of the city’s least attractive neighbourhoods on the outskirts of the East End of London. There was no separate living room; the bedroom doubled as the living room. Where that wall ended, the door-less entrance into the kitchenette began. The bedroom’s walls were a dull off-green colour; it contained one twin bed next to the wall and the radiator, a desk across the room from the bed, two chairs (one under the desk and the other next to the head of the bed), and a small table on the other side of the bedroom from the windows. There was a reading light on the small stand next to the head of the bed, and another on the desk. The entrance door was in the same wall that the bed stood close to, and the kitchenette was across the room from the bedroom windows. A wall that extended most of the way across the side of the bedroom that was opposite from the bedroom windows, and which had a large rectangular opening cut into it which opened onto the kitchen bar, separated that room from the kitchenette; the small table stood next to the wall and underneath that opening. Yellowish-green drapes covered all but a portion of one of the bedroom windows. The information that Mycroft had included with the photos explained that all of the tenants on each floor had to share the same bathroom and toilet, that the nearest tube station was a lengthy walk away from the building that John had lived in, and that there were no shops anywhere within easy walking distance, only a pub. 

Lestrade shook his head. _This is appalling. Depressing,_ he thought. _So_ this _is the best that John could manage on his army pension; moreover, he was forced to live alone there, which could only have made it worse. And even in that cheap, tiny bedsit, provided by the MoD, he could barely afford food and lodgings._ He gritted his teeth as anger surged in his heart. _A grateful nation should have been able to do better than this!_

He looked over the photos again. _His bedsit must have been at the end of the hall, because there are windows at both ends of his flat, with the entrance door in the wall leading out of the hall in-between those ends._

Last, Lestrade spent some time reviewing the copies of the notes of Ella Thompson and Selly Oak’s staff psychologist. Ella had become Dr. Watson’s therapist once he had been discharged from the hospital, as he had noticed. He glanced rapidly over the two psychologists’ notes. _Moderate-to-severe PTSD presenting as nightmares and flashbacks about war, and through persistent psychosomatic complaints. Depressed; possible suicidal ideation. Apparent deep-seated trust issues. Exceptionally aware of and empathetic to the needs of others. No available support system; feelings of isolation. Flat, dissociated mask and despondence; facial expression flat and impassive. Never reveals more than he’s asked; never loses control. Likely to experience sudden resurgence of repressed or latent anger. Pain in right leg when walking; takes carisoprodol and lidocaine plasters for relief, and uses cane. Intermittent tremors in left hand. Loss of appetite. Haunted by memories of military service. Still has trust issues._

An asterisk above _Haunted by memories of military service_ directed Lestrade to a note that Mycroft had included with Ella’s notes. _I have advised Dr. Watson to fire her,_ he had written. A _s I told him, Ella Thompson has it the wrong way around. The good doctor is not haunted by memories of the war; instead, he misses it. I’m not at all sure that he really has PTSD, either, although he most certainly is traumatized._

Another note, written by Sherlock, went as follows: _Mycroft also has it wrong. It’s not the war itself that John misses. He has strong moral principles, and he doesn’t glory in war for its own sake; he became a doctor so he could save lives. He only takes a life when he has to, in order to save one. What he misses is the chance to make a difference, to be of service and to care for others, and he also misses the adrenaline derived from danger. He misses the excitement and the purpose he once had to his life. Incidentally, Mycroft is right about one thing: John is traumatized._

Lestrade chuckled. He suspected that both Holmes brothers had it right, at least to an extent. Dr. Watson did indeed miss the war, though not for the reason that Mycroft believed. As Sherlock had correctly deduced, the good doctor missed the chance to make a difference, to be of service to others. He missed having a purpose to his life, being part of something bigger than himself and, being an adrenaline junkie, he also missed the excitement and danger. As an army doctor, he had been able to save the lives of soldiers (and sometimes of medical colleagues and civilians), and as Sherlock had stated, sometimes that had meant taking lives, which Dr. Watson clearly did not shrink from. Being a soldier, he had been prepared to kill when he’d had to (as he had recently done, when he had shot Jefferson Hope to save Sherlock’s life), but Lestrade had no doubt that the good doctor much preferred to save a life instead of taking one. 

Unfortunately, the detective-inspector feared, they were both correct about the emotional trauma that the good doctor was still enduring. Even if he did not have actual PTSD, he was indeed traumatized, as indicated by his nightmares, flashbacks, and psychosomatic limp, among other things. Having trust issues certainly didn’t help matters. Lestrade sincerely hoped that Dr. Watson would be able to recover from his trauma. 

Leaning back in his chair, Lestrade again shut down the computer monitor, removed his glasses, rubbed his eyes, stretched his arms over his head, took another sip of coffee, and then wrapped his arms around his chest again in an effort to warm himself. After putting his glasses back on, he spent some time mulling over everything that he had read and which Bill Murray had told him. He also reminisced about his own encounters with John, and then spent a few minutes pondering Sherlock. 

_Sherlock was using recreational drugs when I first met him five years ago,_ he thought. He glanced out the window; the streetlights had come on underneath a now-black, starlit sky. _He was destroying himself and ruining his future with the morphine and cocaine, with his mind as high as a kite and the damage he was doing to his body. It took my accepting his help with my cases to give him a different sort of high, one that he could gain by using his superior mind to solve crimes instead of abusing drugs. Nowadays, Sherlock gets the same high from solving mysteries that he used to get from taking illegal drugs, and in the process, he’s making a difference and doing good for other people. So long as he gets his high from solving cases, he has no need to get it from drug abuse; it’s only when he has no cases to work on that he’s tempted to take narcotics. The work also serves as a motivation for him to stay off of drugs, because he knows that if I find he’s been taking an illegal drug, I will refuse to give him any more cases until he’s clean once more. Had any of us found any drugs in his flat during the serial-suicides case, I would have immediately taken him off of it._

Lestrade shook his head at the thought. Thank goodness he had _not_ had to. 

_Truth is, he_ needs _the cases, the chance to solve crimes. And_ I _need the help he gives me. I’m so glad he’s clean at the moment, and I hope he’ll stay clean. Right now, I’m_ so _thankful there are no drug dealers on the block he’s living on, as there were back in the building he was living in back on Montague Street!_

The detective-inspector furrowed his brows. _As for Dr. John Watson—well, he’s_ very _different from Sherlock in so many ways,_ he thought. _I have found no evidence in his records, or in anything Bill Murray has told me, that he has ever abused drugs, so I don’t have to be concerned about him on that score. Since he was on morphine to control the pain for so long, he could have all too easily become addicted to it; I’m so glad that didn’t happen! His doctors must have had to monitor his doses_ very _carefully to prevent him from becoming hooked, since he had to take them for so long. He hasn’t had any more seizures since before he left the hospital; hopefully, he never will, and thank goodness his kidneys have since regained their ability to function. And at least, in spite of the residual pain and disability he still lives with, Dr. Watson is able to function physically, and is compensating quite well; that will help him enormously._

_He_ does _, however, face a_ far _more serious threat—suicidal depression. Even though he never spoke of it to Bill Murray and tried to hide his depression from him, I don’t doubt for a second that he has at least thought about suicide, if he hasn’t actually made any plans and preparations to carry it out. He could have all too easily used that army revolver on himself, to end his life, instead of using it to save Sherlock’s life. He was probably strongly tempted to do so more than once, before he met Sherlock. On quite a number of occasions, I strongly suspect._

Lestrade shook his head at the thought and gazed down at his desk’s cluttered surface. _That is a_ much _graver threat than Sherlock has faced in his abuse of drugs, because whereas his doing so has threatened to destroy his health and ruin his life, Dr. Watson’s suicidal depression, unless checked, could_ end _his. He’s come_ much _too close to death at the hands of an Afghani insurgent, and fought too hard for his life, to throw it all away now by dying at his own hands; I mean to help prevent that. He needs a sense of purpose. He needs to be of service, to make a difference, to be needed, to protect and care for others; that much is clear. He needs to be a part of something bigger than himself. And he thrives on action and excitement and adrenaline. Even danger, although I don’t_ ever _want him coming_ that _close to death again. He needs all of that just as much as Sherlock needs to solve crimes._

 _Moreover, he needs a support system, especially since he’s fighting, at the very least, emotional trauma, if not actual PTSD. That’s something else he’s been missing ever since he returned to London. When he was in the army, his colleagues had his back and he had theirs; his unit was his family while he was deployed. He probably misses that, too, and he needs that again. He needs others he can lean on; furthermore, since he has trust issues, which I suspect he developed_ long _before he ever joined the army, he needs others he_ knows _he can trust. Unfortunately, he does not have that in his sister and his cousin, and I also suspect that he may not have had that in his parents while they were alive, either. Sherlock, at least, does still have his parents as well as his brother._

Lestrade sipped his coffee and then gazed down at John’s records. _We can provide him with that. All of it. Not only with the chance to serve others and to see action, but we can also provide him with the support system he needs so desperately. He was so sad and so alone before he met Sherlock, but that has since changed. Dr. Watson is not depressed now; that much is clear. His psychosomatic limp is gone, and there’s a life, a vitality, in his eyes that wasn’t there when I first met him. The flatness and despondency in his demeanour that the former Sergeant Murray and his therapist have both described, and which I saw on his face when we first met, is gone now. His sense of purpose has been restored; he has something to live for once more. He has a chance to make a difference, just as he was able to do back in Afghanistan. And he’s not alone anymore, as he was back in his bedsit; he has a flatmate now. Not to mention that he lives in a decent neighbourhood now, with ready access to the tube and the shops. And now that Dr. Watson's sense of purpose has been restored, perhaps he will soon be ready to start looking for a job as a GP at a clinic or a surgery._

Greg grimaced. _However, he still has issues he needs to deal with; mainly, his trust issues, but there may also be other issues troubling him that I don’t know about. He has much difficulty talking about his feelings, for one thing—even more than the average British male—and from what I’ve already learned of him, I have reason to believe that he also has a tendency to take responsibility for situations that are out of his control, and to blame himself when things go wrong. He will have to learn_ when _to take responsibility and accept blame for the consequences of his actions, and_ when _to understand that something is not his fault or under his control. He can do the first quite well, I strongly suspect; it’s the second he needs to learn. Not to mention that there’s a_ lot _of anger bottled up inside of him—anger that I suspect he doesn’t know how to deal with. That makes me suspect that it’s not the war alone he has to come to terms with; there may also be family issues from his growing-up years that trouble him still. Even so, Dr. Watson has recovered tremendously in the short time I’ve known him._ He smiled. 

_Just moving in with Sherlock has helped him enormously. For all that he is good for Sherlock Holmes, it’s become quite clear that Sherlock Holmes is equally good for him. Thank goodness Dr. Watson ran into Mike Stamford when he did!_ He smiled at the thought. 

_It was Sherlock who cured his limp, and who has given him a reason to live once more. By helping Sherlock, Dr. Watson will be serving others once again, and the adrenaline-inducing action that working with Sherlock will bring him will still his intermittent hand tremors. At least, while they’re working on a case; there’s no guarantee that the tremors won’t return in between cases._ Lestrade grimaced at the thought. _If Sherlock can help him find an adrenaline-inducing hobby to engage in when they’re not on a case, that’ll help him greatly._

Lestrade scratched his head. _But more than that, Dr. Watson will be helping_ me _. It won’t be like the war in Afghanistan, but the fight against crime is a war in its own right, as he will soon discover. His experience as a trauma surgeon and as a soldier will help both Sherlock_ and _me enormously. And I really believe that Dr. Watson is, just perhaps, the one man who will be able to help Sherlock to become a good man as well as a great one._ The detective-inspector smiled at the prospect. 

_If_ anyone _can accomplish that feat, it’s Dr. John Hamish Watson. He has already become the one thing none of us ever thought possible: Sherlock’s friend. Already, he has become a good influence on our consulting detective—just look at how Sherlock stopped to backtrack and seek John’s feedback after blurting out that insensitive remark about Jennifer Wilson’s feelings for her stillborn daughter. Not to mention that he actually sought the doctor’s opinion at the crime scene! And as Sherlock said on the night of the serial-suicides case, he has strong moral principles and nerves of steel._

As he took a sip of coffee, Lestrade paused to consider that. On the surface, Dr. Watson was such a bland, unremarkable, diffident man. Modest, mild-mannered, unassuming, respectful of authority, and very polite and well-mannered; so easy to overlook, and very quick to fade into the background. And yet…and yet, there was so much more to the good doctor than met the eye, Lestrade mused; that much was clear. A man of deep humanity; a daring, courageous soldier; a caring, dedicated, exceptionally-skilled doctor; and an adrenaline junkie, cool, calm, and collected under fire. A crack shot. And a man who already had Sherlock’s back, as his actions when Sherlock's life had been in danger had made clear. 

Lestrade smiled. _In short, Dr. Watson is a good man, a decent man. Very likeable. Caring and compassionate. Steadfast and determined and quite brave._ And _with strong moral principles and nerves of steel, just as Sherlock said. From what I’ve learned about him, he was an excellent doctor—still is, I suspect—and one h___ of a soldier. He had quite a military career while he was in the RAMC. He’s definitely inconspicuous; it’s all too easy for him to fade into the woodwork, and for others to overlook him—as I did, when I went to Sherlock’s flat to ask for his help._ He shook his head ruefully at the memory. _But nonetheless a man with some remarkable qualities. Dr. Watson doesn’t realize it, but he is truly an extraordinary man. So ordinary on the surface, and yet so_ very _extraordinary underneath. I really believe that he will be the best thing for Sherlock; already, he is looking out for our consulting detective. And I also believe that Sherlock has already become the best thing for Dr. Watson._

The detective-inspector rubbed his index finger over the crisp white sheet on top of the stack. _Fortunately, he has no criminal record, so I see no evidence that he would be a threat or a liability to us in any way. Tomorrow, I will call him and tell him that he has passed the background check._

Whistling, Lestrade removed his glasses, rose to his feet, and turned the heater back on; its soft hum once more made a soothing background noise. Returning to his desk, he popped the cassette out of the cassette recorder, divided the crisp stack of papers into three separate smaller stacks, and then included the cassette with one of them. He placed the stacks inside three folders, all of which he labelled _Dr. John H. Watson, Volumes 1, 2,_ and _3_. After the detective-inspector had inserted the folders into a metal file cabinet in the back of his office, he picked up his mug, switched the overhead light off, and then entered the squad room to get a refill of hot coffee, smiling. He fully intended to keep a close eye on Sherlock and his new flatmate, and he was looking forward to again working with Dr. Watson.

**Author's Note:**

> *The date that I chose for John’s injury is a nod to canon. The Battle of Maiwand, a real-life Afghanistan battle back in 1880, which the fictional John Watson was shot in, occurred on July 27th of that year. It’s safe to assume that it was in early 1881 that Dr. Watson first met Sherlock Holmes, since it was in March of that year when the two first began working together to solve mysteries. Therefore, I am assuming that a little more time has passed for the modern-day John Watson from the date of his injury to the date on which he meets Sherlock, since he first does so on January 29th, 2010.
> 
> **From what I’ve learned from wellingtongoose’s tumblr and LiveJournal articles, medical-school graduates in Great Britain don’t receive MDs; they receive MBs. To become an MD, which is similar to a PhD, one has to spend an extra two years performing an original research project while having access to a well-equipped laboratory. John’s CV states that he received a MBBS when he graduated from Kings College London in 2004; it states nothing about him earning an MD afterward. Therefore, the correct title for him is John Watson, MBBS.
> 
> One more thing. The newspaper articles in “A Scandal in Belgravia” state that John is 37 years old. However, John’s CV explains that he finished his education at King Edward VI Grammar School and then started medical school at King’s College in 1999, and that he finished his house officer work in 2006. In addition, John tells the hostile major in a flashback sequence during “The Sign of Three” that he spent three years in Afghanistan, in Kandahar and the Helmand Province. The span of time between 2006, the year he finished being house officer, and 2009, the year he was shot, makes three years exactly, so there is no way that he spent a sizable number of years in the army before he was shot, nor did he have time to become a regular soldier after finishing seven years as a doctor; the time between his completion of house-officer work and his being shot and invalided out was just too short to allow for that. The only conclusion I can draw is that someone on the BBC staff made a goof which resulted in a major discrepancy in John’s age. Unless he was retained in primary or grammar school several years in a row, putting him in his mid-20s when he finally passed his A-levels, there is no way he was in his mid-30s when he first met Sherlock. John had only been invalided out of the army a few months before they met, so we can also rule out his spending several years in London before they do so. For the reasons listed above, I choose to go with the ages given on his CV, which makes him about 30 when he and Sherlock meet, instead of 36. (If Harry really was 36 at that time, that makes her John’s older sister, not his twin.) We really can’t go by Martin Freeman’s age in estimating John’s, because it’s common for actors to play characters younger than the actors who are portraying them—sometimes several years younger. (A good head-canon explanation would be that the reporter who wrote that article either got his age wrong or mistyped it.)


End file.
